With will reformed and newly burning determination, Lightning faces the end of the world once more-- Only this time, she stands alone.
"You should know who I am, or should I say, what I am." Lightning Farron RP Blog
Post XIII-2 | GMT-8
There was no point to dwell on this—anything—not anymore. No; never. Fate of the gods, predestined for failure, lost salvation. What more were these than words, insecurities sprouting from within her own mind?
There was no denying the losses. Her world had fallen, sister swallowed by time, and existence itself was left hanging in the balance. But she had made it through all of that. Despair and anguish aside, she hadn’t been alone. Together, as patch-worked as they were, the l’Cie banded together in Cocoon’s final moments, the falsified family toppling Orphan from its cradle and inevitably the only world she’d ever known from its nest in the sky.
Coral tresses whipped up against pallid cheeks, darkened vision snapping back to the blinding lights speeding past now, beryl-encased sight unfocused as she banked hard to the right, an almost weightlessness to the liberator whilst she barreled towards her destination. Everything felt so surreal, a sigh escaping almost mechanically in acknowledgement of her own past.
The sky had been dark when they fell, and her first instinct had been to herd everyone together. She felt the same pain of watching Serah, despite her attempts to tell her sister her fate, as the fabled Pulsians took to their own fate with smiles on their faces. She’d always believed she’d failed them, that they’d been forced into their decision. Even as she was swallowed by time, the choking feeling of retribution wrapped around her neck and the thundering of her anxious heart drowning out any semblance of reality, the ex-soldier believed she deserved this fate. She was being punished, surely.
But she had done the same, turning to the very magicks within that they viewed as a curse to spare another after her tireless endeavors against Etro’s nemesis. Never more than then had the warrior felt so alone, the closest reminder of her humanity the amethyst donned harbinger whom dared to toy with her on occasion. She was never meant to win, breaths ragged and body worn, mind long since broken. The goddess was simply prolonging the inevitable long enough for the helpless orphan turned prodigy-director to hail as a messiah to the last of civilization.
The life of one for the lives of many. Such a basic understanding of value, regardless of what the subject in question was. For so long, her blood was the only reason for fighting, the only thing that dragged her from the cold, dead shores of Valhalla to the cold, dead shrine of the goddess.
Empty. Everything they had ever been fed was just lies and deceit.
Serah was gone now—whether or not she lived on as a part of time or had been erased entirely as a paradox effect, the combatant was unsure. Knuckles turned white against the handlebar, the reverberant humming lulling her back to the now, heel skidding against the pavement as the vehicle was angled to a halt.
Father and son had unconditionally held out for each other, doing what they could for others along the way. Sisters of Pulse overcame their lies in order to save themselves and countless lives. The orphaned boy turned away from revenge and instead rebuilt his home anew. The Hero never once let doubt grip his determination—something that earned a smirk from the former sergeant even now as she deftly dismounted the bike, aviators removed from the bridge of her nose whilst she began her trek onwards.
She had always fought solely for her selfish wants, crystal hues swimming amidst the fiery resolve flickering between rows of sable feathers. A pause, the wind teasing with her cascade of locks piled unceremoniously at the left of her nape in taunt. The liberator smirked in rebuttal, fringe of her trademark mane blotting out the windows to her true intent.
Now? Now she fought for everyone.
The rain pounded heavily against the calm city streets, it’s dwellers ignorant to the untimely apocalypse looming ever nearer. Knuckles grew ivory beneath ebony coverings, the heavy sigh escaping a tight chest carried by the winds that tangled a tumbling cascade of rose tinted locks while sapphire ringed optics narrowed in the assault of the weather’s tears splashing across her pallid visage, effectively stirring memories of previously expressed emotions.
The whistling in her ears grew dim as her attention was diverted to the horizon, blade heavy in her grip once feet made their way one in front of another. It was useless to prolong this delay, to try and stave off the inevitable showdown. The world, the future, the people she loved—they deserved a fighting chance. She was but one life, after all; the choice was as obvious as the fiery glow of the rising sun lit anew the determination in the warrior’s eyes.
The battle had yet to begin, but the war had long since conquered her soul.